


He is the Wind in the Door

by rivers_bend



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Sibling Incest, Time Travel, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-28
Updated: 2010-02-28
Packaged: 2017-10-07 15:18:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/66406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivers_bend/pseuds/rivers_bend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has dumped Dean and Sam in Georgia for the summer while he goes to Louisiana. Meanwhile, fourteen years in the future, Sam is searching an old hotel. He gets sucked back in time and lands at his brother's feet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He is the Wind in the Door

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Jerk, the Bitch, and the Wardrobe](https://archiveofourown.org/works/66405) by [rivers_bend](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivers_bend/pseuds/rivers_bend). 



> Warnings/Enticements: Dean is 16, Sam is 26, discussion of adolescent sexuality

Dean hates Georgia before they even get there, just on principle. It's a place for Dad to dump them—like Dean isn't old enough to take care of himself (and Sam too) on a hunt; like Sam isn't twice as old as Dean was the first time Dad taught him to shoot straight. A guy Dad knows has a house he isn't gonna be using for the summer, and this will pay back the favor he owes John Winchester for something neither of them talk about. Dean still doesn't see why they can't go with Dad down to Louisiana, help him with whatever he's doing there. But his first protest is met with a _This is how it's goin' to be, son _and the second with a sharp _Dean,_ and the look that means _end of story_. So here they are.

Dad stays three nights, poring through a stack of books in the enclosed porch, and then takes off with the usual warnings to be good and take care of his brother.

Sam is a bundle of hormones, throwing rocks at the back of the house for an hour after Dad leaves, refusing to eat the dinner Dean cooks, and then screaming that Dean hates him and wishes he were dead when Dean accidentally scalds him by turning on the water while Sam's in the shower. Then, once he's dry and dressed in his pjs, Sam climbs practically into Dean's lap, not giving him an inch of breathing room, and starts fiddling with the loose threads at the knee of Dean's jeans. He's all soft-warm affection; he doesn't even demand that Dean change the channel.

"What am I going to do with you, squirt?" Dean asks.

"Nothing, I guess." Sam sounds almost resigned, which Dean's not sure what to do with, but then he's distracted by Sam wiggling down so his head is resting on Dean's thigh.

Settling back to watching the documentary about the evolution of skateboard wheels, Dean cards his fingers through Sam's hair and wonders when they last sat like this. A year ago, probably, when Sam was just a little kid, without the sharp elbows and crazy mood swings.

They both end up falling asleep. When Dean wakes up, his neck burns with having been bent the wrong way and the TV is trying to get him to buy a vacuum sealing kit. Sam just murmurs and shifts when Dean tries to wake him, so Dean picks him up and carries him to bed.

The next day, they go for a run. Sam slows for a moment at the park where Dean sees him looking at a hand-painted sign on the fence: "Youth Soccer Camp July 11th – August 19th. Sponsored by the Kiwanis Club."

"Hey, you wanna go? We're here 'til the end of August," Dean says.

"Pro'ly too expensive." Sam glances at the sign again and then puts on a fresh burst of speed.

Catching up, Dean says, "Maybe not. Sign says those Kiwanis guys are sponsoring it," but Sam just ignores him.

They do five miles. Sam must be growing a little because Dean hardly has to slow down to let Sam climb the porch stairs first. After lunch, Sam takes a book out under the tree in the yard, and Dean calls Parks and Rec and signs his brother up for soccer camp. It's only twenty dollars for the six weeks, and that includes snacks and lunches. Sounds like a good deal to Dean; there is no other way he could keep the bottomless pit in lunches for six weeks for twenty bucks. Besides, the way Sam's all over the place lately, he needs something to keep him busy.

Dean keeps himself busy, too. There's a diner in town with a waitress named Alexis who makes no secret of the fact she wants Dean on her menu. He's not inclined to argue. She gives him his first blowjob in the cab of her brother's pickup during her cigarette break between the breakfast and lunch rushes on a muggy Tuesday.

When Dean asks if she's going to get into trouble, she says, "Boss never said _what_ I should be smoking," and laughs harder than her joke deserves.

It's not until after the third time in a week she blows Dean's mind that she mentions the boss and her brother are one and the same. The guy is half a head taller than Dean and twice as wide, and Dean's seen him throw a full mop bucket at a busboy's head. Before Alexis' brother can make the point for him, Dean decides it's in his best interest to leave Alexis alone.

The next Wednesday morning, Dean's pouring himself a glass of sweet tea after walking Sam to camp when there's a thump from the living room. Instinct and training have his glass down and the gun from the utility drawer out before he can even finish wondering what the noise is. He's still turning when he hears someone call his name, sounding panicked.

"What?" he says, first thought that it must be Dad, home early for some reason, maybe hurt, but the man on the floor is not his father. He does look like a man and not some other creature, though, so Dean approaches him cautiously, finger outside the trigger guard and senses on high alert.

He starts to ask who the guy is, but before he can finish the question, the guy says, "Dean?" again, like they know each other, but like Dean is somehow not who or what he expected.

Dean moves closer, and there _is_ something familiar about the man. He's staring at Dean like he's seen a ghost. Not the scary kind, though. More like Dean's a long-lost loved one than a nasty poltergeist.

When Dean asks who he is and where he came from, the guy says his name is Sam. Like Dean's supposed to know who that is. Since the only Sam Dean knows is half this guy's height, half his age, and also at soccer camp, Dean's not buying it.

Not even when the guy starts spinning a story about falling through a wardrobe from the year 2009.

Except. The guy _knows_ stuff. And there is something about him that makes Dean actually kind of believe his story. Not that he plans to tell "Sam" that. But then Dean slips, letting his guard down for a moment when they guy flatters him, and suddenly he's up against the wall, hands pinned, with the smell of his _brother_ filling his nose. The scent throws him off. Takes the fear and anger he should be feeling in this position, morphs it into something else entirely.

Instead of being on his guard, fight-or-flight ready, Dean's crazy, dizzy, and then Sam presses even closer and the feel of him hits every button Dean's got—including ones he didn't know about and more he's never admitted to. Dean's whimpering and Sam is grinding his dick against Dean's hip and saying, "Jesus, Dean," like he's got a few buttons of his own. It's insane and Dean isn't even sure which is _more_ insane—if this guy _is_ his brother, or if Dean is letting a total stranger hold him down and take his gun while he rubs up against the guy's thigh like a dog in heat.

He feels like a dog, sniffing Sam's neck, his hair. Dean's cock recognizes it as a muted and more complicated version of the scent on the pillow Dean's started clutching to his face while he jerks off (never thinking about why he uses Sam's pillow instead of his own to keep himself quiet, but doing it every time).

Dean is ashamed and humiliated and can't remember the last time he was this turned on.

Sam is sucking on his throat now, telling Dean he feels amazing, and this has _got_ to be Sam or why would this be happening? Dean has never had any urge to follow any of the older guys at the pool hall when they've nodded towards the back, not even the guy in Jackson who looked like an older Brad Pitt, but Dean wants to fuck this guy so bad he can taste it.

He's about to try and find some oxygen somewhere to say, "I've got a bed," when Sam turns him around and throws him on the sofa. It protests with a squeal and a popping noise, but Dean doesn't even notice, heart pounding at how easily this grown-up version of his brother is able to manhandle him. It makes his dick jerk and his legs weak.

Dean's little brother has always been _little_. Someone who needs to be taken care of. Who _Dean_ needs to take care of. Never—_almost never_—a responsibility Dean resents, but there's a dynamic. A familiar feeling in Dean's chest all wrapped up in this person he'd do anything for, who _needs_ Dean to be the responsible, knowledgeable, all-powerful, _good_ brother.

The Sam kneeling between Dean's thighs is all muscles, quick reflexes and decisions. He's looking _at_ Dean, not _to_ him. Dean wants to run and hide, he wants to spread his legs wider, let Sam hold him down, flip him over, pry him open and climb inside Dean's skin.

When Sam takes his shirt off, it's even clearer that he could do anything he wanted to Dean: pick him up, break him, impress him by killing a werewolf with his bare hands while Dean watched. Dean bites his lip in an effort not to whimper. He doesn't even consider refusing when Sam wants to take Dean's shirt off too. If Sam said, "I'm going to cut your clothes off with a knife," Dean suspects he'd lift up to meet the blade.

It scares him suddenly, what he would do, what he would let _Sam_ do, his _brother_. All grown up or not, Dean believes this man is his Sam, and they— "Shouldn't. We shouldn't be—" _doing this_. His body either hasn't caught up with his brain, or has shot right past it, because he's wrapped around Sam like he's afraid the guy is going to run away, grinding his dick so hard on Sam's thigh it's almost more pain than pleasure.

"Want me to stop?" Sam asks; he must have heard Dean's protests.

Dean cannot think of anything he wants less right now. Especially after Sam gets his hand inside Dean's jeans.

Before he can say, "Yes," or, "God," or, "Sam," the hand is gone again, but only long enough for Sam to rip Dean's jeans open to get better access. Hot, perfect pressure, skin on skin, delicious friction, and Dean's coming, suddenly, and so hard it feels like Sam's sitting on his lungs. Jesus. He didn't even come that fast the first time Alexis got her mouth on him.

As if Dean weren't embarrassed enough about his quick trigger, Sam says, "Hope you recover as quickly as you come ," making heat flare in Dean's cheeks.

"Fuck you," Dean counters, weakest comeback on earth, but shit, he's just—

Then Sam drawls, "I plan on it," and Dean's pretty sure he just came again, untouched and without even getting hard first. His stomach is still jumping when he notices Sam is pulling Dean's jeans and boxers the rest of the way off.

Sam stands, leaving Dean feeling exposed and vulnerable, and starts pushing his own jeans down off his hips. "You ever sucked dick before?" he asks.

He's huge all over. Ridiculously, nothing-like-Dean-ever-imagined huge, and there is no possible way he is fitting that thing in Dean's mouth. Speechless, Dean shakes his head.

Then out of the blue, Sam asks about Alexis. He hasn't told Sammy about her, and the words shock him into a huddle in the corner of the sofa. "Who told you?"

Sam reaches out to stroke his hair; "You did," he says, and then mimics Dean's voice: "So fucking wet, Sammy," and Dean can hear himself saying the words. Not to the kid at soccer camp, maybe, but the kid brother who looks up at him and says, "What's it like when a girl puts her tongue in your mouth?" The kid he's heard jerking off in the bed almost every night since they got here; he can see telling that Sammy about the waitress's blow jobs.

Now Sam's saying something about jerking off to imagining Dean sucking him, and _jesus_. "Jesus." Dean's eyes jump to Sam's face and he thinks, _Maybe. It would—I want—_ and then Sam dares him. Calls him scared.

And he's not scared. Other than how he's completely terrified. But that hasn't stopped him since he was eight years old, and it's sure as hell not going to stop him now. Sam's _right there_, dick fat and long and heavy, waiting for Dean's mouth. All he has to do is get on his knees and suck.

If Sam towered over him while he was taking away Dean's gun, that is nothing to how he looks now, muscles for miles, backlit by the sun coming through the window. Dean can do this, though. He can.

The smell of Sam's sex is heavy in Dean's nose, a thicker smell than he's gotten used to when doing Sam's laundry, but still familiar. Dean's mouth is dry with anticipation. While he works his tongue against his teeth to get some moisture, he reaches out and grips his brother's dick. "Not scared," he repeats, and gives a short tug, aiming Sam's cock at his mouth. The angle, the size, the weight are all different, but even more unexpected is the way the movement pushes Sam's foreskin up, half over the head of his dick.

Dean's cut, Sam isn't, facts of life, but Dean has never thought about what that _meant_ before. What it would feel like. _Look_ like. Not even thinking, Dean covers the still-bare half of Sam's cockhead with his lips. Insanely smooth, slick on his tongue, and Dean wants to taste more. He slides his hand down and follows the skin, mouthing at the vein until he meets his fingers, eyes on the muscles fluttering over Sam's stomach.

When he moves to suck Sam into his mouth, Dean's eyes focus on where his fingers are wrapped around, wondering how the chicks he's seen in porn can even get that far, never mind all the way down to the root. He can feel he's gripping too tight, but can't let go, concentrating too hard on keeping his mouth open, teeth out of the way, suction, spit. His jaw aches already, it's hard to breathe, and Dean just wants _more_ of it. Wants Sam not to be careful with him, just to push and see how much Dean can take.

And then Sam does, fucking past Dean's palate, hitting his gag reflex and making him jerk backwards, bringing tears which feel strangely cool on his cheeks. Sam's face, though, the glimpse of bare _need_ just before he bucked forward—Dean has to see that again. One breath, deep into his lungs, and Dean goes back, taking Sam in, fitting Sam's cockhead snug behind his teeth, trying to breathe through his nose and relax, _relax,_ as Sam rides forward, stretching Dean open.

When Dean thinks he can't take any more, Sam stops, careful again, not what Dean wants, making Dean move, hunting for that feral look he saw before. He gets it, tries to push harder, get more, but he can't, is choking, sputtering apologies, falling back, gasping for air.

He doesn't plan to give up, but Sam sits down on the sofa then, and with almost no effort, has Dean off the floor and on his lap.

There is bare skin everywhere and then Sam pulls Dean's face close and kisses him; it's all so much that Dean loses track of where he is and what's happening. Thrusting, writhing, arching back and curling forward, never enough contact or friction, he just _wants_. Then Sam is shifting him, moving so his dick is riding the crack of Dean's ass, making Dean even crazier. He's desperate to move, feel Sam harder, get more friction, have Sam _inside_ him, but Sam is cupping his ass and won't let him, instead rocking him in a slow, short rhythm that isn't nearly enough.

Just when Dean thinks he's going to fly apart with the sensations, Sam starts whispering filth in his ear. _Hole. Slick. Sweat._ Dean doesn't even know what, but he begs, gasps, "Fuck, Sam," and Sam jerks, hard, like he's going to nut right now, and Dean has to cling more tightly to Sam's neck to avoid being tipped onto the floor.

"Want to," Sam says. "Gotta fuck you."

There are condoms in the bedroom; Dean flashes back to his father's lecture, deadly serious, given with a strip of three Trojans on the table between them, which John tapped for emphasis with the .22 he was busy cleaning when Dean had come home drunk and reeking of perfume. "Every time, Dean. _Every damn time._ I don't care what you're doing or who you're doing it with, if your dick is getting wet, you wrap it up. We don't have time to be taking you to the clap clinic." Last thing he needs is to think about his father right now, so it's just as well Sam makes thinking pretty much impossible.

"I have—" Dean says, and Sam must be a mind reader or something because he stands, like it's not an effort at all to get up off a sagging sofa with a hundred and forty pounds hanging off his neck, and carries Dean down the hall.

Sam tosses him on the bed, goes right for the drawer with the lube, and Dean realizes this is _real._ Sam is going to _fuck_ him. This isn't fooling around making out, or even exchanging hand jobs; that dick Dean can see thrusting out eagerly from between Sam's thighs, _that_ is going in Dean's ass.

His ass which is a hell of a lot smaller than his mouth. What was he thinking?

"I haven't ever—" Dean says, not sure if he wants it to sound like a no or not.

"Don't worry." Sam lays a hand flat on Dean's belly, hot and reassuring. "I have."

Dean is dizzy with relief and with jealousy; he's glad one of them knows what he's doing but he can't stand that Sam has done this with someone else. Unless maybe— Maybe Sam's done this with Dean in the future. Dean's brain can't cope with time travel conundrums when six and a half feet of sleek skin and muscle is lying down next to him, turning him, pulling him in, kissing him, so he gives up worrying about it and gives himself over to the sensations.

Dean has never felt anything as frustrating or wonderful in his life. The girls he's done stuff with have pretty much just gotten on with it, and the point usually seemed to be to get to the finish line. Sam's point seems to be to figure out the key to spontaneous combustion, or to make Dean's brains melt out his ears.

There's teasing friction, slick and never enough, the feel of Sam all around him, and it's so so good but not enough, and it goes on forever. Dean's vaguely aware that he's clutching his brother's shoulder, his waist, and he's begging, pleading, but can't seem to form any actual words. This is probably the most insane thing he's ever done, which is saying something, but he could no sooner stop than flap his arms and fly. He needs—_needs_—

Finally, Sam pushes into him with a fingertip. It's strange and a little wrong and just the right sensation to bring Dean back to here and now, to make this feel real. Sam moves deeper and says something that is probably supposed to be soothing but that just sounds like a rumble of pure sex to Dean. He tilts up, tries to kiss Sam but ends up catching his chin instead. Then Sam's pulling at Dean's leg and trying to push what feels like his whole fist into Dean's ass.

It hurts—a sharp burn—and when Dean flinches, Sam stops, shushes him and begs him to relax before kissing Dean breathless.

Dean's not sure he can do this. He wants it but if a couple of fingers hurt that much, Sam is never going to fit his dick in there. Dean says something to that effect, and Sam goes back to fucking him with one finger, which feels much better.

Dean takes a deep breath and feels himself relax. The pressure in his ass eases as Sam withdraws and then increases again, heavier with a little more stretch, but much less pain than before. Then Sam starts rubbing, outside and inside, and again Dean's sure that he's going to burst into flame.

Dean's ass is full and empty at the same time, he loves Sam's fingers but wants his dick, and there has to be more than this—can't possibly be, because nothing has ever been so intense. Dean can't stop moving, can't stop pleading, moremoremore; he needs Sam to take him, split him open, get inside.

"Fuck me, please, fuck me," Dean demands, and that might be the strangest thing that's happened yet—_Dean_ demanding something of _Sam_ without a trace of guilt.

Sam makes his own demands right back, of course, but even though Dean hears Sam tell him to turn over, get on his knees, Dean can't make his body obey. He tries, but finally Sam has to turn him, lift his hips so Dean's ass is in the air.

Dean's ass is clenching, feeling vulnerable, and Sam must know somehow, because he leans over and kisses Dean on the mouth, claiming, reassuring, fitting himself to Dean's back like he wants to touch Dean everywhere at once.

Then he lifts up again and his dick is rubbing and poking at Dean's hole. He's huge, but Dean still feels the empty ache Sam left when he pulled his fingers out, and he's not scared anymore. Sam asks if he should stop and Dean just pushes back, through the unbelievable stretch, thighs and shoulders shaking.

"Fuck. Dean," Sam says, sounding wrecked.

Dean can only whimper in response, every other ounce of brain and breath needed to cope with what is happening. He looks back at the man who is somehow his brother, trying to tell him to just do it already, but Sam must see something else in Dean's face, because he starts to pull back.

Dean's whole body screams _No!_, and somehow Dean grabs Sam's hip, forms the words to tell him to keep going that get Sam moving forward again.

The pressure is relentless, makes Dean sweat, hot and cold all at once, and the pain is somehow both intense and perfect, like pummeling a charley horse.

Sam starts rubbing Dean's back and his belly, making Dean realize he's all tensed up again. Dean breathes, relaxes as much as he can, begs Sam to move; if he doesn't, Dean's not going to be able to take this.

Sam complies, shifting Dean's hips so everything seems open and easier, not just Dean's ass, but his lungs, too. Curving over Dean again, kissing Dean's shoulders, pushing them into the mattress, Sam goes even deeper, and it feels like he's fucking up against the base of Dean's dick from the inside. So much, so good, but _god_, "So full."

Sam shifts, stops crushing Dean, and it's easier to move, get leverage to actually _fuck_. Everything is better when there's motion, rocking-slick friction.

Dean has almost forgotten about his dick until Sam takes Dean's hand, moves it there and wraps it around.

"Get hard for me. Want you to feel good," Sam says, and Dean wants to please him, so he strokes himself. He doesn't think he needs it, felt good before, but Sam's right: the twin frictions feel even better.

The doubled sensation takes him out of the moment, and Dean feels like he's flying above this, like he's disappearing, and Sam could be anyone.

"Talk," he asks Sam. "Say something."

He can't make sense of Sam's words, but the sound of his voice is calming. Though it obviously has the opposite effect on Sam, who starts thrusting faster, harder, gripping tight to Dean's hips and shuddering as his words falter, and he cries out, coming.

Sam just collapses, and Dean likes that he made Sam come that hard, but his hips are in agony which forces a pained noise past his lips. His brother—and he still can't believe it's him, even while believing —moves enough for Dean to straighten his legs out, but stays draped over his back, cock still in his ass so Dean's sandwiched against the mattress, his hand trapped under his own hip, fingertips just brushing his stiff cock.

He has no idea what he wants—Sam to move, pull out, start fucking him again, let him jerk off—but he needs something other than this frictionless weight. As though he can read Dean's mind, Sam rolls to the side, making Dean wince as Sam's dick slides out, but then gathering him up and kissing him.

Dean's suspended in the eye of a storm, torn between feeling the way he did the time he made his first kill (saving his father), and feeling broken open, like he wants to crawl inside this Sam's chest and stay there, where nothing but Sam can ever touch him again. He can't speak or think, can't even open his eyes until Sam practically begs. He risks a glance at Sam's face, and all the intensity he's feeling is mirrored in Sam's gaze. Dean can't face it. It's too much, so he just clings tighter, sucks on Sam's skin, barely manages to nod when Sam demands to know that he's okay.

The sucking soothes him, and Dean comes down enough that his still-hard dick starts wanting attention again. Sam's hip is right there, hot groove to rut against, sweat-sticky friction, but enough, he thinks, to get him there. Until Sam notices what Dean's doing and offers him a blow job. The way he asks—a little teasing, a little hesitant—flips a switch in Dean, brings him back to center, and he grins.

Sam thinks he can do better than Alexis, and good as she is, Dean's pretty sure Sam's right. Not that he's going to let Sam know that. "You really think you can? She's blown half the football team," he says.

"Is that a dare?" Sam's voice is deep, stern, a combination of Dad's dead-serious voice and the tone Dean tries to take when his own Sam is skirting that line between annoying and adorable. Dean's almost certain Sam's still teasing, but not one hundred percent.

He goes with it, though, says, "Think you're up to it?"

Sam's grin in response is blinding.

The intense mood completely broken, Sam tickles and teases his way down Dean's chest, until finally getting to where he promised to go and sucking the whole of Dean's dick into his mouth with no preamble.

Dean squeaks in surprise, prompting Sam to spit out his dick and laugh. Dean protests, but honestly doesn't mind the break it gives him, because he'd really like not to come the second Sam touches him again.

Apparently Sam's skills don't begin and end with a deep throat; he does things with his lips and tongue, his fingers, that make Dean wonder if Sam has done _anything_ but suck dick between now and 2009. That, or he clearly has access to much better porn than Dean's ever seen. It's all Dean can do to hold on; even then, the effort has him bucking and twitching so much he's afraid he's gonna make Sam bite him. He can't really bring himself to care all that much, so long as Sam doesn't stop.

Just then, of course, Sam does, pausing to say, "Now? Do I measure up?"

It takes Dean a second to even figure out what he's talking about, then he remembers Alexis. "Fucking _christ!_ She's not even in your league. Suck me already," Dean demands, and thankfully, Sam complies.

Using willpower forged over a hundred nights sitting somewhere cramped and uncomfortable waiting for Dad, Dean staves off the orgasm bubbling up his thighs and down his spine, until Sam pushes his fingers back into Dean's ass.

"Goddamn son of a motherfucking _bitch_!" Dean shouts, can't help it, and he kicks, jerks like he's been lighting struck, and comes for what feels like a week.

Part of Dean is aware that he's babbling like a grateful pre-teen girl who just got saved from being eaten by a swamp monster, but he's more concerned with getting Sam the hell up the bed so he can kiss him than with feeling embarrassed. He's pretty sure that was the most amazing thing that will _ever_ happen to him, and he needs something other than words to convey that.

Sam doesn't seem to mind the babbling or the kissing.

When Dean's kissed all the taste of his own jizz from Sam's mouth, Sam, despite how much bigger he is, curls around Dean and rests his head on Dean's chest. The position is _so_ Sam, so Dean's little brother, that Dean chokes up a little.

Just like he would with Sammy, Dean cards his fingers through Sam's hair, and in moments Sam's breathing drops heavy into sleep rhythm. Dean himself lasts another ten or fifteen minutes, trying to wrap his head around what's happened this morning, but then he follows his brother into dreamland.

 

When Dean wakes up, Sam's gone. _Gone_, gone; Dean can tell an empty house when he feels one. He wonders for a minute if he dreamed the whole thing, but while the jizz smeared on his stomach could be from a wet dream, the hickey on his hipbone can't. It's not just a hallucination; it aches sharply when he presses it and brings the sight of a Sam all grown up and sucking Dean's cock rushing back. The vision makes his stomach flip and his chest get tight like he's going to come or cry—or both. Rolling on his side, Dean punches the wall, which is ridiculous and childish but makes him feel better anyway.

Looks like almost time for Sammy to get home, the way the sun is slanting through the window. Dean's not sure he can face him. Before today, he could ignore the way Sam has featured in his jerk-off fantasies, figuring it was normal considering the amount of time they spend with each other and no one else. Normal-but-he-was-never-gonna-act-on-it. Like those women he read about once who fantasize about being kidnapped and tortured. Gets you off to think about but you don't _really_ want it to happen, what with how it's dangerous and sick and fucked up. _Jesus_.

But now that he has reason to believe that the hot eyes and longing looks Sam's been throwing his way actually _are_ hot eyes and longing looks, and he's just had sex with his brother and it was the best sex ever, Dean feels like it might be too late to go back to just smelling Sam's pillows.

Willing himself not to think about it anymore, Dean goes to shower and do a load of laundry. Last thing he needs is a moody, jealous little brother sniffing around. He gets everything done just in time to walk over and pick Sammy up, so he does, though Sam usually walks home alone. It's best to meet his fears head on.

Sammy is thrilled that Dean came to meet him, bouncing around, telling him about the three goals he saved in their scrimmage. He doesn't notice that Dean is almost silent, staring at his little brother, trying to see the man from this morning, totally unsure if he's disappointed or relieved that the differences are so profound. There's no way this Sam could pick Dean up and carry him like nothing, pin Dean anywhere Dean didn't want to be, cover him completely, fuck him so hard and perfect he forgets about coming—

And yet. Dean still feels that thrill of fear when he looks at Sammy because his little brother _can_ control him with those damn eyes of his just as easily as the older Sam controlled him with his hands. And when they get home and Sammy makes sure to push through the doorway at the same time as Dean so he can press against him for a moment, Dean catches his brother's scent and it sends the same message to his dick.

Dean clears his throat and asks, "What do you want for dinner, Mr. Goalie Extraordinaire?" when Sammy heads straight for the kitchen.

By the time Dean catches up, Sam has the fridge door open, standing in the gap, but he's slim enough for Dean to see past him at how empty it is. That's when he remembers that he was supposed to go get groceries today.

"Cereal's fine," Sammy says. He actually sounds like he means it, too, but Dean is struck with guilt anyway.

"You sure you wouldn't rather have burgers or something?" There's a Burger King about two miles away and it's a nice evening for a walk.

Sammy slams the fridge door shut, rattling the condiment bottles in their shelves, and spins around all teeth and wide eyes. "Yeah!" he says.

Dean can't help grinning back. "Well, go have a shower. We don't want to knock the other customers over with the stink of victory."

"You love it," Sam counters—presumably with no idea how right he is—and hooks an arm around Dean's neck, pulling his head down to armpit level.

"Gah! Get off," Dean yells, and tickles his brother's belly, wrestling him out of the kitchen and towards the bathroom, pretending not to notice Sammy's hard on, and being careful to keep him away from Dean's.

No way is Dean going to confuse this kid in front of him with the version of his brother he met this morning. This is Sammy. Dean's to protect and take care of. Dean is patient. He is. He can wait for Sam to make the first move.

Sammy's a smart kid. He'll figure out Dean's waiting.

~fin~


End file.
